Hairline Fractures Through Our Façades
by Tricki
Summary: Of course she has had numerous half drunk conversations with her staff about the details of Malcolm's private life, but the consensus is generally that the ring is a way to soften his image rather than an actual symbol of a romantic commitment. [Malcolm and Nicola finally come face to face with each other's spouses at the Government's end of year function.]


**A/N:** Happy New Year, everyone! I suppose this will be the last thing I post in 2013, so I'd like to thank you all for coming along for the ride with me for another year. You are all glorious. Have a fabulous night and an even better 2014. As always, all of the cares to Becs xx.

**Summary:** Malcolm and Nicola finally come face to face with each other's spouses at the Government's end of year function.

**Set:** Soon after Season 3 ends.

**Spoilers:** Vague ones to the end of Season 3, and references to 3.06.

**Pairs:** Nicola Murray/James Murray, Malcolm Tucker/Lucille Westenne, Malcolm Tucker/Nicola Murray

* * *

**_Hairline Fractures Through Our Façades_**

**_by Tricki_**

"Malcolm. You're looking minimally homicidal tonight." These words are purred by Nicola Murray, who seems to have appeared out of nowhere. Given, the end of year party is always overcrowded, so it's unsurprising that she's been able to weave through the crowd in such a way that he hasn't seen her approaching. The room is stuffy and dimly lit; alcohol is flowing, but everyone is basically too tired from the frenetic year the government has endured to get _too_ untidy. This combined with the election scheduled for six weeks time means the mood is rather an odd one.

"Nic'la. You're looking minimally incompetent."

Nicola rolls her eyes at him good-humouredly and offers her glass for him to clink. He takes the offer, even gracing her with a little glint of warmth.

"That dress is way too fucking loud, though."

"And the good news for both of us is that tonight, I don't give a shit about what you think of my clothes, and you don't have to worry about them."

"Now _that_ is worth drinking to." They repeat their action and each take a fresh swig of their respective drinks, Nicola a glass of expensive champagne and Malcolm a well aged whiskey.

"Who made this monstrosity, then?" He queries, eyeing her fitted dress printed with giant white, blue and teal roses. Aside from the fact that the print is much too busy and the colours too bright, she does look good. The dress hugs her curves in the right places, and the part of him he denies exists is looking forward to watching her walk away.

"Karen Millen. Good British designer, you don't have to worry about a repeat of American-outfit-gate."

For the first time Nicola notices that the woman who had been standing at Malcolm's side when Nicola first approached him hasn't moved. Nicola had assumed it was a mere coincidence that there was a beautiful woman at Malcolm's side, but it now occurs that she may be there by design.

"Sorry, I'm not sure we've met. I'm Nicola Murray." Nicola says, extending her hand to the delicate blonde woman.

"Sorry; Nicola, this is my wife, Lucille."

"Oh, god, hello!" Nicola's eyes widen exponentially with surprise. Of course she has had numerous half drunk conversations with her staff about the details of Malcolm's private life, but the consensus is generally that the ring is a way to soften his image rather than an actual symbol of a romantic commitment. Looking at this little blonde woman, Nicola can't quite fathom that she is married to the thoroughly monstrous Malcolm Tucker.

"It's so nice to meet you finally. Malc talks about you a lot."

"Using only violent sexual imagery, I'm sure." Nicola smiles the sentence, comfortable with the state of her relationship with Malcolm, now at a point where she can tell when he genuinely hates her and when he's only being playful, in his own slightly sociopathic way.

"Of course not!" Lucille looks slightly appalled at the suggestion, and Nicola wonders if perhaps the Malcolm Lucille sees at home is a very different Malcolm to the one Nicola knows. Nicola can't imagine Malcolm can avoid swearing for more than fifteen minutes without having an aneurism, let alone avoiding being his generally objectionable self. Furthermore, for no apparent reason the idea that he is not himself with her is something she finds troubling.

"Sometimes I forget that you're the Glummy Mummy, alright, Nic'la? Jesus."

"Oh shut up, Malcolm, I'm sure you say even worse things about me in private than you do to my face, and that's _really_ saying something."

Nicola casts her eyes over Lucille again. She's like a younger, blonde version of Michelle Fairley combined with Hope Davis - intimidating in her beauty, and disconcerting in her pleasant nature. How is this woman married to Malcolm Tucker? Nicola is struggling to fathom it. She's also trying not to dwell on the fact that the other woman is at least two dress sizes smaller than she is. Beyond that, she is trying to avoid examining why exactly she should care.

"Lucy, do me a favour and don't listen to Mrs Murray. She's mentally infirm." Malcolm throws teasingly at his wife, and Nicola's mind is reeling. She wants Ollie here so they can collapse on each other with the enormity of the evening's revelations. "Hey, speaking of, Nic'la, where's the man for the moment?"

The look Nicola shoots him is vicious, but he's sure only he can perceive the exact level of ferocity in the glare. He wonders if the look is for the reference to her accidental leadership tilt, or the totally correct insinuation that her husband is a worthless piece of shit that she really should leave forthwith. Why Malcolm cares whether or not Nicola is married to an impotent arseclown is something he finds momentarily troubling, before he averts his attention to his wife. Nicola watches him touch gentle fingers to the small of his wife's back. She is clad in black, a figure hugging dress with three quarter-length sleeves, and a skirt which comes to the shorter woman's mid calf. If Nicola were to wear such a thing, the other woman's husband would tell her she looks like a nun, or a black widow, or... or anything else that Malcolm Tucker, bastard extraordinaire, is liable to say. Nicola wonders if he goes through the same outfit-vetting process with his wife that he does with her. Nicola doubts it; if he did the same with her in anything other than a professional advisory capacity, she would be throwing bleach on his Savile Row suits.

"James - my husband" the last an aside to Lucille, "is just over there with Tom."

Across the darkened room Malcolm can make out a tall man with brown hair, laughing bullishly with Tom. Malcolm wants to scoff. He is everything Malcolm expected and more. Conventionally quite handsome, but carrying a few extra kilos; broad shouldered with an air of new money and former-school-rugby-captain oozing off him even at this distance.

Malcolm, inexplicably, has the overwhelming desire to bite out the words 'well, looks like there _is_ something you've fucked up more than your political career - your choice of husbands!' but he refrains. He's not sure his wife is in any state of mind to watch him verbally abusing a colleague, especially one that he maintains some notion of civility around when he discusses his work with Lucille.

But of course, he is always bemused by the fact that he cares. Nicola's train-wreck of a marriage should only affect him when it's fucking her up before an interview or it's in the papers. That is all. But for some reason, some small part of Malcolm would dearly, dearly like to punch James Murray in the face. Looking at him now, he can see this would only result in his own jaw being broken, but the desire is there nonetheless.

"Is he off tellin' Tom how much he was lookin' forward to calling you 'Madam Prime Minister' in bed?"

Bile rises in Nicola's throat; not only because Malcolm is particularly vile in her eyes when he starts needling at her home life, but also because he's probably right, and she can't bear it.

"Maybe you should ask Tom. He is your boss after all."

Malcolm bristles as Nicola knew he would. They know each other well enough to push the right buttons to _really_ get under each other's skin. It's a brilliant skill and horrible habit for both.

Lucille seems to catch the coiling of Malcolm's muscles and lays a soothing hand on his suited forearm with a laugh. "Now now, darling. I know you like to think you control the entire Party, but you're only the Communications Director." Nicola studies the scene in fascination. These are not the words she would have used to disarm Malcolm, and she is surprised when they have their desired effect, eliciting a short laugh from the Scot. What fucking parallel universe has Nicola stumbled into? How is this happening? Malcolm Tucker, so easily neutralised by a comment that would have landed her right in the middle of a bollocking. Nicola feels through the looking glass and in the wrong wing of Hogwarts all at once.

"I might leave you to it. I actually needed to speak to Ollie about something earlier and I've just spotted him. It was _so_ lovely to meet you, Lucille." Nicola extends her hand and shakes the blonde woman's again warmly, trying to keep the constant stream of 'what-the-fuck' flavoured questions spilling through her mind from showing on her face.

"You too, Nicola. Maybe now that Parliament's risen we could grab lunch some time?" Nicola's stomach rolls with its objection. Why she is so averse to it is beyond her; Lucille seems lovely, Nicola is sure she would be delightful company and a fabulous friend, but something in Nicola keeps shouting that she is Malcolm's and it is simply too strange for her to befriend Malcolm's Tucker's wife.

"I think Nic'la will be too busy feedin' on the careers of her political betters, Luce." Malcolm quips, and Nicola swears the corners of his mouth quirk at her. It's almost warm. Nicola shoots him a weary glare for Lucille's benefit and says "That would be lovely. Malcolm's got my number - obviously, I'm sure you're frequently woken by our four A.M. phone calls." Lucille laughs with Nicola, but the action doesn't quite touch her eyes, as if she has no idea what Nicola is talking about. One perk of her political career is that, if nothing else, Nicola has learnt how to read people. There is definitely something in this that she should be delving into, and she shelves if for future examination.

...

Quickly, Nicola turns on her heel and searches out Ollie, jabbing him repeatedly in the ribs with an urgent "Ollie! Ollie! _Ollie_!" when she reaches him.

"Ow - Nicola! _Ow_!"

"Oh it doesn't fucking hurt, come here I need to talk to you." Nicola casts a furtive glance over her shoulder, twisting her body so that Malcolm and Lucille are in easy view.

"Nicola, it's the end of year do, I don't want to talk about what happened at that school in Essex again..."

"What? No. No. Do you see the reasonably attractive blonde woman off my right shoulder?"

"Is this a dig at me for not bringing Emma? Because you _know _I couldn't have brought an Opposition staffer to our - "

"Ollie would you shut up for four fucking seconds! No, it's not a dig about Emma. There's a blonde woman at my three o'clock. She's standing with Malcolm."

"Oh. Oh! Yes. Why?"

"She's Malcolm's fucking wife!" Nicola hisses, eyes wide with the thrill of her discovery.

"Fuck. Off!" Ollie exclaims, his mouth hanging agape with disbelief.

"I know!"

"Jesus, she's - she's - I mean she's really attractive and... and _normal_ looking."

"She's completely normal, Ollie! She's _lovely_. And Malcolm is a good forty-seven percent less horrific around her."

"So, still Pol Pot-esq then?"

"She's a woman, Ollie, not fucking electro convulsive therapy."

"Right, yes, fair call. So, can we just war game this for a second? Malcolm _Tucker_ is married to a woman who isn't a malignant narcissist, and seems, based on your five minute interaction with her, to be actually pleasant. How does that work, Nicola? _How_?!"

"That's what I fucking want to know!" Nicola hisses excitably, moving closer to Ollie as if they're sharing national secrets rather than gossiping about a co-worker.

"Oh god, I have to meet this woman." Ollie says, casting his eyes over her just as Malcolm says something which makes her laugh warmly. Malcolm's hand smoothes over her shoulder with what they both assume, from this distance, is affection.

"Yes!" Nicola makes a victorious hand gesture, inadvertently thwacking Ollie in the process. "Yes! Go meet her and - I don't know, fucking work out what exactly _that_ is." Ollie studies the scene from across the room, and again Nicola hits him lightly.

"What are you waiting for? Go! Reconnaissance is one of your new KPIs." Another swat for emphasis.

"Alright, alright! I'm going! Jesus Christ, Nicola, stop hitting me, I feel like Tina bloody Turner."

Just as Ollie is about to take off, an intoxicated James Murray winds his arms around Nicola from behind and drawls, "Heeeeeey, Nicky!" In her ear.

Ollie recoils and mumbles "And _there _is all the encouragement I need" before ducking his head and darting off.

...

Even from the other side of the room, Malcolm notices every muscle in Nicola's body coiling with tension, notices her face pinch with discomfort, notices her settle her hands over her husband's and attempt to push them off her hips as subtly as possible.

"I had a pint with the fucking Prime Minister!" James slurs against her hair.

"And in this room, James, that actually puts you in the majority." She paints a smile onto her lips for the sake of the other people in the room, but her skin is genuinely crawling. At moments like this, Nicola deeply wishes she had married someone she had the capacity to continue _liking_ into her old age at the very least.

Across the room, Malcolm mumbles his abandonment to his wife and squeezes around her, setting off in Nicola's direction. Ollie is secretly glad to have the chance to interrogate Lucille in private, and takes the opportunity of Malcolm's absence to pounce on her.

"You must be the infamous James Murray!" Malcolm enthuses, managing a level of sarcasm so thick but also so light that somehow only Nicola can detect it.

"Well you would be correct there, my good man!" James replies with vigour to surpass Malcolm's.

"Malcolm Tucker." Says the Scot, extending his hand.

James' handshake is firm but overly boisterous. Malcolm places a great deal of importance on someone's handshake. He likes them firm, but contained, neat. Sam's had been perfect, Jamie's a little too firm (but of course doesn't that perfectly sum up Jamie?), and Nicola's had been surprisingly good. Strong. Genuine. The inclusion of her second hand into the mix had bemused him somewhat at the time, but afterwards he had come to see that putting this little bit extra in was so typically Nicola Murray, doing anything she could to make someone feel welcome, invited in. Nicola also, he has noticed over the year, adapts her handshake based on her company. She does not often use her second hand with journalists, will only do so with mid-level-favourite MPs or strategically important ones. Yet somehow, even though he had been able to see on her face that day that she equated meeting him with something along the lines of sacrificing her favourite child to the Scottish God of Swearing and Mutilation, she had been welcoming with him, warm. Perhaps she had been trying to disarm him, perhaps dominate him; he's not sure. When he has a moment he intends to analyse why she used only one hand when greeting his wife.

"Jesus, I'm meeting political royalty left right and centre tonight. Nicky talks about you all the time."

"_Oh, _does Nicky now?" Malcolm queries, raising a pointed eyebrow at the woman in question. The look Nicola shoots Malcolm in return is venomous, and he knows it's a line he normally only crosses to make a real point. While he would usually think this a waste of a good taunt, he can't help but highlight it at such a moment. Is James the reason she hates being called 'Nicky', or does he use the epithet knowing how much she hates it?

"Yup!" James enthuses, mistaking Malcolm's dig for a genuine query. "Frankly, mate, I expected you to be scarier."

Malcolm wants to hit him.

This is partly due to the little tit-bits he's picked up from Nicola, not solely based on this interaction, but even this short conversation is enough to drive the Scot mad. How Nicola manages to keep herself from committing a violent homicide is rapidly becoming something he admires her for.

"Well, tha's alrigh', _mate_," his blue eyes flick to Nicola just in time to see her wince. "I expected you not to piss yerself with excitement over our Tom here, so I guess we're even." Malcolm manages to keep his tone light enough that James laughs, missing the genuine malice his levity hides. James laughs rancorously and claps Malcolm on the arm. Malcolm is totally rigid, and displeased in the extreme to have been touched by the other man.

"Oooh, Ed and Elaine are over there! D'you wanna come say hello, Nicky?"

"You go ahead, I'll catch up."

"Catch you soon, Malc. Be good, babe." James smacks Nicola firmly on the arse on his way past, and Malcolm watches as every inch of Nicola braces against the displeasure she wants to show, her lips press into a tight line.

"I need a fucking acid bath." Nicola mumbles, snatching a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and downing a reasonable portion of it.

"Jesus H Christ with a sharpened cross up his arse, Nic'la, he's even worse than he was in my fuckin' head! And in case you hadn't grasped it yet, the inside of my mind is like a orgy of fucking Saw movies."

"Thank you for your relationship advice, Malcolm, it's greatly appreciated. Just like your fashion advice and your photographic placement tips." She's giving him that look that says while she is too tired argue with him quite as well as she'd like, she utterly despises him. Malcolm is unconvinced by the display. Clearly she hates her husband more than she hates him.

"No, seriously, Nic'la, he is a complete fucking fannywank."

Nicola frowns. "How is that even a legitimate insult? Fannywank. Fuck's sake, Malcolm..." She diverts her scowl in the direction of her husband.

"Hey, the issue at hand is not my ability to insult your fucking husband, who, by the way, is _beyond_ a joke, but how far beyond a joke the massive jug of shit-come cocktail is."

"What about you and Holly Gofuckinglightly over there? Why is that not the issue at hand, eh, Malcolm?"

"You leave my fucking wife out of this, Nicola." His tone is genuinely dangerous now, and Nicola is thrilled to have found his Achilles heel.

"Oh, can the big bad wolf dish it out but not take it? Is that what's happening here? You get to dissect every single fucking _cell_ of my family but I can't even make one comment about yours without you looking at me like you're about drop me in an industrial shredder."

He steps into her, genuinely pondering the merits of poking her in the chest. "That is exactly right." Still the dangerous tone, Menacing Malcolm rearing his ugly head and attempting to exert his dominance over her. Nicola, fuelled by revulsion at her own spouse and the power of her discoveries about his doesn't care an ounce right now.

"And why is that, Malc?" Nicola's tone becomes silky, taunting. Malcolm would kill her without hesitation if they weren't in public. "Is it perhaps because Little Miss Sunshine isn't quite as happy as she seems?"

"I'm not dicking about here, Nic'la. You shut yer mouth about my fucking wife."

Nicola's eyes gleam with victory. She has him, has hit the nail soundly on the head, and for once she has the advantage.

"Oh, I think I'm onto something here. Everything's sweetness and light in public but maybe - just _maybe_ your marriage is actually just as much of a fucking joke as mine is. Maybe you're having a bit of trouble pleasing the little lady?"

"Well at least you need to fuckin' _ask_! Everyone in this room can feel yer skin crawling like an escaped mental patient is smearing shit on your face whenever he touches you!"

"Well maybe that's what happens when your marriage falls apart after twenty one years! How long have you been with Lucille Ball over there? Two years? Three? Trust me, sweetheart, hatred is much easier to hide at the three year mark. Take it from someone who's been there."

Malcolm's voice drops half an octave and becomes something that can only be described as a growl. "Don't ever. Fucking. Call me sweetheart."

"Don't ever fucking drag my family into politics again." The tension between them has reached boiling point, the kettle has turned itself off, and their irritation ebbs away slightly. Finally Malcolm breaks their eye contact and casts his gaze across the room.

"What's Brad Shit doin' with my wife?"

They have pivoted apart like the covers of a book, and survey the scene before them shoulder to shoulder, arms almost brushing. "Fact finding mission." Nicola informs him.

"Ye're not really goin' to make friends with her are you?"

Nicola smiles a little and sways into him, bumping her arm against his and resting there gently. "I absolutely am now I know how much it bothers you."

A sideways glance at that fucking beatific smile and he is right back to wanting to kill her. He does not, however, move away from her.

In a rare moment of letting his guard down, Malcolm mumbles "She's leaving me after the election, anyway."

"What?"

"You heard me. Separate bedrooms. Barely see each other. She's divorcing me after the election." Her eyes meet his again, and she notices they've become bluer since they began this conversation.

"Oh, Malcolm. I'm so sorry." She squeezes his arm supportively, and it will only later occur to her that they have the most bipolar pattern of interaction imaginable. Within the space of five minutes they have gone from trying to provoke the other into murder to Malcolm confiding in her and Nicola offering him comfort and support.

"Writing's been on the wall from the first, Nic'la. No one stays married in this job, especially objectionable fuckers like me." He sounds circumspect about it, but she can imagine the injury he bears. Rather than delving through his private life in a crowded room full of colleagues, Nicola instead releases his arm and returns to resting lightly against him.

"You know, you're not actually the most objectionable person I've ever met."

In spite of himself, a grateful smile touches the corners of Malcolm's mouth. "You're just saying that 'cause Steve fucking Fleming's here."

The brunette at his side shrugs, uttering the word "Partly."

Malcolm snorts a soft laugh. "Yeah, well, you're not actually the most incompetent Minister I've ever been tasked with blooding in. Top five, though."

"I'm honoured."

"Your dress is still way too fucking loud, though." Malcolm announces after a beat of companionable silence.

"Well so's your mouth, so maybe we're even."

"We're about as even as Glenn's bollocks, Nic'la."

"Are you capable of just letting a conversation die without shooting one last shit encrusted arrow?" He rounds on her with his Prelude-To-A-Bollocking face, and Nicola turns wearily back to the rest of the room.

"Sorry. Forgot who I was talking to for a minute."

"Look, I'd better go save mah wife from Saint Shitolas over there."

"Yeah. I'd better wrangle my husband before he gives Tom a blowjob." They share a conspiratorial smile, and just as they're parting Malcolm turns back to her and calls softly "Hey, Nic'la, maybe when this is all done we should have a divorce party?"

"Let's not make any long-term plans, maybe? Y'know, it's a big assumption that one of us won't kill the other before we're done."

In spite of himself, Malcolm smiles. "Most valid point ye've made since we met."

Malcolm and Nicola withdraw back into the crowd, and back to their respective unhappy marriages. One day, in many years' time when they have put their tumultuous histories in politics aside and made some kind of peace with each other, Malcolm and Nicola will sit with a collection of various alcohol and reminisce about nights like this one. Malcolm will speak of exactly why his marriage came to crumble, and Nicola will describe with self-deprecating humour why she married James in the first place. Malcolm and Nicola's divorce party is, tonight, a morose idea which they never expect to come into fruition, a moment of black humour passing between two people who can't quite decide whether or not they utterly loathe each other. In the distant future the night they affectionately term their divorce party will become a night they pinpoint as one which significantly alters the course of their future.

Between this night and that one way off into the future more will pass between them than could possibly be predicted. Each will all but destroy the other's career four times over; Nicola will plot Malcolm's death sixty eight times per week, and Malcolm will swear at her eighty times per day on average. Tonight they will settle for some kind of temporary peace being called in their normally tumultuous relationship, and when their eyes occasionally lock across the room they will share a conspiratorial smile. Knowing the other is equally miserable is just about all that makes this party bearable.

Well, that and the fact that Terri has started violently krumping in the middle of the dance floor.


End file.
